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Friday, January 6, 2017

'Silence' (2016) Movie Review

Martin Scorsese is one of those filmmakers who’s reached
such a status he can do whatever the hell he wants. And with good reason. It’s
been in the works since 1990, but the Goodfellas mastermind
finally ushered his adaptation of Shusaku Endo’s 1966 novel,
Silence (previously adapted by Masahiro Shinoda in 1971), to
the big screen. The result of this passion project is bloated, plodding,
overindulgent, and 161 minutes of 17th century Japanese peasants being tortured
so a white dude can learn a lesson about his faith. Though I’m not entirely
certain he learns anything at all.

A lot of folks are praising this as a work of staggering
genius full of fantastic performances, and as an experience unlike any other.
It certainly is all of those things by degrees. Ultimately, however, as
ambitious as it is, as pummeling as it is, in my opinion,
Silence is a swing and a miss. Like the central characters,
the intentions are great, but the execution is a frustrating, bordering on
naïve meditation on the problems of religion, faith, missionary endeavors,
grace, and regret.

The story follows two 17th century Portuguese Jesuit
priests, Father Sebastiao Rodrigues (Andrew Garfield) and Father Francisco Garupe
(Adam Driver), as they travel to Japan, where Christianity has been violently
outlawed, in search of their mentor, Father Cristovao Ferreira (Liam Neeson),
who has gone missing. On the surface, it’s a simple story. Staying hidden, the
two Jesuits search for clues about their lost mentor and minister to the
faithful who conceal their true religion.

Opening on a scene of vicious torture, shrouded by plumes of
steam billowing off of Japanese hot springs, Silence sets
itself up as nightmarish, Apocalypse Now-style journey of destined
to leave the protagonist grappling with the nature of his faith and humanity.
That’s established right out of the gate. And it wants to do that. And other people
seem to think that it accomplishes this. But I think they saw a different movie
than I did.

Maybe it’s because I’m not a religious person at all (though
I certainly have a soft spot for spiritual quest movies), and maybe a devout
believer will have a different take than I do, but in the end, I found
Silence profoundly pointless. With little to no propulsive
force, the film repeatedly—and I mean with repetition driving points far into
the ground—watches as others suffer for Rodrigues steadfast, inflexible
devotion. Those in power crucify, drown, burn, belittle, and generally torment
any hidden Christian they come across, usually while the Jesuit watches tearfully
from the bushes. At least once the authorities capture him, the goal is to
break him, to make him renounce his faith. But it takes hours to get there, and
even then, their larger aim is little more than to scream “don’t be Christian
or we’ll fucking kill you” at everyone they encounter.

In a movie populated almost exclusively with Asian actors
it’s frustrating to see them reduced to one of two camps: cartoonish villain or
as a mechanism to affect the white protagonist. The main antagonist (Issei
Ogata) literally cackles most of the time he’s on screen. I swear, if he had a
mustache, he’d stroke it and giggle like a Fu Manchu stereotype.

Every supporting player, all of their nobility, their faith,
their bravery in the face of torture, adversity, and death, all of it exists to
prop up the white guy. It’s about him, his feelings, his faith, how their
suffering impacts him. It’s not about how faith or religion affect the people
or nation. It’s not about foreign incursion or the inherent vanity and egoism of
missionary work. One character, Kichijiro (Yosuke Kubozuka)—in a running bit
that recurs, no joke, five damn times—almost presents a counter to Rodrigues’
immobility. He makes the wrong choices, but not necessarily for the wrong
reasons—unfortunately, this winds up a tedious cyclical touchstone. Silence
purports to be about so much, to be so deep, but there’s actually very little
in the way of conviction.

Silence is already proving divisive. Some
people call it complex, I call it empty. Some people see it as the peak of
Scorsese’s spiritual cinematic quest—he’s said his whole life has been movies
and religion, nothing else—while what I saw feels very much like someone stalled
out in a search. I can’t speak to the man’s intentions or aims, but for all the
philosophical pondering, there’s no discernable momentum. Some were rapt, I was
bored and exhausted, and not in the good, emotionally draining way (I yawned throughout).

In Scorsese’s hands, working once again with cinematographer
Rodrigo Prieto, every frame is elaborate and perfect in that effortless way
only a master craftsman can pull off. Using only ambient light—or at least the
appearance of only ambient light—creates such a naturalistic feel that it fades
entirely into the background. It’s easy to ignore or gloss over how marvelous
each shot actually is. Which is itself a remarkable feat.

Silence wants to challenge the audience.
Everything element is designed to keep the viewer away, but the biggest challenge
I found was sitting still for that long. An almost total lack of score creates
further remove. I get the intent of this choice: to trust the audience to find
their way with a dearth of artificial signposts, to rely solely on Andrew
Garfield’s pained expression—there’s so much tormented Garfield face. At the
same time, however, the result is often directionless bobbing and the movie
feels adrift and even lost.

Every choice Scorsese makes is methodical and deliberate,
but I’m never sure of the underlying why. Silence travels
curious and intentional paths, but like the picture as a whole, I’m left to
wonder about the point. I want there to be a point, this is the kind movie that
desperately screams, “There’s a point.” No matter where I look, I simply don’t
see one anywhere.

And as much as every frame is a careful, premeditated
composition, and as long as particular scenes—especially those of religious
ritual—drag on, Silence reaches a certain narrative point
only to rush towards the conclusion. Like Scorsese was writing a paper on a
deadline, putting the utmost care into every word choice, then realized he had
to dash out the last page to beat the clock. The pace speeds up and skips
through years, with forced inserted voiceover from a heretofore unknown
character.

Overall, the word I keep coming back to to describe
Silence is “almost.” It’s almost great, it almost digs into
the meat of faith and religion and spirituality like it wants to—one moment in
particular, where Rodrigues and Japanese official (Tadanobu Asano) almost have
an actual exchange about Christianity and Buddhism, comes perilously close. It’s
almost a poignant moment. They almost get
there. Almost.

Instead, Silence feels like throwing
stones in a deserted cathedral. Noise and clatter echo and reverberate off the
walls, but in the end all we’re left with is silence, an empty exercise in
spiritual posturing.